


Melodía Ausente

by TA_Hybrid



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Acceptance, Alternate Universe, Coco Locos Angst Off 2018, Gen, Inevitability, Loss, Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 21:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15894918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TA_Hybrid/pseuds/TA_Hybrid
Summary: Coco might have clung to her father, a fading memory. But unfortunately a four year old can only remember so much, and as she grows the memory just... slips away. AU/UA





	Melodía Ausente

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** "I can't do this anymore."

The first time that he sees the glow he's still playing. Music is still something he's good at, something that he can share with others. Share with the world, although really right at that moment he's sharing with kids. Children who he looks at and something in his ribcage just aches.

He may be young at twenty-one, but at least he's an  _adult_.

Still, that golden flicker catches his attention, and there's a ripple of shock, a gasp. The children all kind of scramble, circling around their companion who moment's prior had been laughing, happily dancing and playing with the rest of them to the tune of his beat-up guitar.

"Timoteo?" there's a twist of something, an uncomfortable feeling as the small boy whimpers, that glow flickering across his bones and through his markings again. He doesn't understand what's going on, not really, but he can  _see_  that something's wrong. His eyes widen as the glowing intensifies, the boy's whimpers quieting.

He can only watch, light reflecting in them as it grows more constant. Clinging to the small bones, overtaking them. And there's this sinking, seeping feeling as the glow folds inwards. Collapsing down, the whimpers vanishing completely. Dust, glittering flecks of that light that catch and hold for mere moments before being blown away.

"T-Timoteo?" he asks, brow-ridges pulling together in confusion. He looks around, struggling to understand-

"He's been forgotten..." he's not quite sure who answers. But the soft words freeze him in place. An icy feeling creeping up his spine, coiling over his bones and settling there like a blanket as he finds himself feeling the need to swallow. He turns slowly, looking around at the children. They're all shrinking back, some of them toeing at the ground, most of them looking away.

None of them are quite able to meet his gaze.

And he finds that he can't meet theirs either.

There's just this chill in the air, something that's hanging over them, in the air. It curls through his bones, giving him this distant feeling of understanding. A creeping itch, a nagging at the very back of his skull.

"F-forgotten?"

"Si..." there's a soft voice responding to his shaky question. He finds his arms curling around himself, rubbing up his arms as he seeks the owner of the voice. There's shuffling around him, the children splitting apart around him, the cheer of the music he'd been playing earlier long gone. And he almost thinks he knows what's about to be explained to him. "There's no one left in the land of the Living who remembers him..."

"So he's disappeared from this world..." his breath catches somewhere in his ribs, and his eyes snap around. Darting. Seeking something he can't quite name, there's a rightness in his ribs, a crushing realization, an understanding.

A dread that creeps up his spine, leaving each of his vertebrae trembling. A knowledge, a certainty.

"It happens to all of us eventually..." someone else whispers, but it's like he's underwater. The realization washing over him, pulling him down with a tremble that shakes him to his very core.  _It happens to everyone_. He hadn't thought about it before, hadn't thought about what it meant that he couldn't cross the bridge. Year after year, attempt after attempt for almost seven years now. Seven years and only now is he facing the realization.

It's inevitable.

He wants to deny it, he wants to shout, to slam that train of thought down. To scream that it's impossible but. For six Dia de Muertos celebrations now he's been unable to even get  _close_  to that bridge. There's this chill the sinks into his bones at that thought.

 _It happens to everyone eventually_.

"Señor? Would you play your music again?" someone asks, and he gingerly picks up his guitar once more. The tune that follows is a bit fainter, almost hesitant as it begins. And even long after the event is over his music continues with just that faint touch of mourning in the notes. A melancholic feel.

He can't quite make himself leave the crumbling town that night.

The Underbelly of the Land of the Dead, the run down, and ramshackle town with all its crumbling buildings. Falling apart and being forgotten. He can't quite make himself leave that night.

And that glow.

He finds himself staring into the gently lapping water, an awareness of people around him disappearing as he can all too clearly picture it. All to clearly see it. His hands curl around, just barely within his sight. His bones are still bright, a light white colour but. He can't pretend that they're as bright as they once were. Can't pretend.

He stands up, and leaves.

But there's a prickling beneath his shoulder blades as he does. A certain weight.

* * *

Dia de Muertos 1942 starts with a jolt, a sharp lance of something that sparks through his bones. A pulse that sends him reeling, dropping him down to his knees in the middle of the street, small glints of gold off his bones. His arms curl defensively around a stomach that's no longer there and he huffs weakly, confused.

 _It hurts_.

It hurts, but he pushes himself up, one thought clear in his mind. A goal, he's still got to at least try this year. His movement's stilted, jerking, and there's a certain weight to his bones that wasn't there before. He blinks, wincing at how much brighter everything around him suddenly seems,  _was it always that bright?_  His skull feels like it's stuffed with cotton and it's so hard to move. Jerky and awkward, but he forces himself to move anyway.

Pure willpower.

He stumbles, one foot in front of the other towards his destination. Can barely even think about what his plan was, let alone try to implement it when he does stumble into the Marigold Grand Central Station.

Distantly he's aware of a wash of voices. A crowd collecting to just try and get glimpses at someone. He sways on his spot, peering to try and see who's there. Raising one arm up awkwardly and freezing. His eyes snap open.

The exhaustion and the heaviness of his limbs evaporating all at once at the stark difference in his bones. They'd gone from a light white, slightly dull with a cream tinge, to incredibly dull, and that cream has become a yellow that creeps over his bones. A painfully clear discolouration. His bones rattle from the power of his shock as he pulls his arms in front of him, eyes raking over them, trying desperately to tell himself he's seeing things.

There's no way that-

There's someone speaking. A familiar voice, just barely loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the crowd's voice. He raises his head up from his arms and his eyes dart. Seeking and searching, scanning for.

The bright glimmering almost shiny white of a new arrival stands out starkly even among the throng of still well remembered skeletons. Bright, pure white, almost gleaming really. But even as a skeleton, there's no mistaking who that is there in the middle of the crowd. Even after these years.

Twenty-one years, but only twenty Dia de Muertos celebrations.

There's a burning feeling in his bones, he wants to call out, to demand an explanation. He staggers on his feet, ready to stalk over there and demand an explanation, but-

A chill rushes though him, something that causes him to freeze. Something that leaves him standing there, eyes fixed firmly on that familiar figure, but he can't force himself to move. Can't open his mouth to even call out to them. There's a tremble in his bones, a rattling in his soul, and instead he finds himself pulling back, pulling away.

Yellowed bones wrap around himself and he curls slightly. The chill forcing him to shake, and swallow.

He decides to ignore the familiar figure.

Turns away, and instead focuses himself back on his goal. On, his arms drop down, and his gaze lowers to stare at the discolouration clinging to his bones.

_It's inevitable..._

He shakes away the feeling. Doesn't let himself focus on it, instead focusing on reaching the line to the bridge and, he can't remember what his plan was. Can't remember, so he just kind of falls into the line. Some desperate attempt. Of course he's turned away, he's not sure what he expected.

 _There's no photo_...

"Lo siento..." the agent says, voice quiet, almost apologetic as she shakes her head. "Maybe next year..."

He doesn't know what he expected, and there's a curl beneath his ribcage. A discomfort and he finds himself glancing back, looking towards where that crowd had left. He could follow after them, attempt to ask, attempt to find out... But there's a coil in his bones, and he has a creeping feeling that he really  _doesn't_  want to find out.

So he backs off, finds and quiet corner and  _plots_. Because there has to be some way to get across that bridge.

* * *

He curls up in the corner of his shack, arms coiled around him. There's a stinging in his sockets as he trembles, a shiver that goes through his bones at the weakness, the discolouration is stark. He can't pretend not really, not that he's ever really been able to pretend.

"I can't do this anymore." his voice is soft, barely a breath. "I can't..." there's a tremble running through him, and he's acutely aware of the monster that's looming over him. A fate that rests at the end of the line for everyone. It's a beast so close he could practically feel it's breath on the back of his neck. He can't pretend that it's not there.

Not when the chill seeps into his bones in the middle of the night, and he knows.  _He knows_. He takes a deep breath, and uncurls himself. A shudder runs through his bones, the smallest flicker of golden light, a pain in the stomach he no longer has, a pressure in the back of his non-existent throat as phantom muscles  _seize_. He chokes on a gasp, stumbling forwards and collapsing onto the ground, curling in on himself and trying to hold back sobs and tears.

He can't.

He pushes himself up weakly, forcing himself to cross over discarded papers, half-finished drawings and sketches. Letters addressed to nobody. His head drifts as he stumbles, making his way, staggering over to a desk pushed up against a far wall. He practically falls into the chair there, and slumps forwards. A hand curls into the hair of his wig and he chokes on another breath. Choking on the pain, the ebb and flow of the energy that's creeping of his bones. A weight that's constant, consistent.

It's can't be escaped.

It can only be delayed.

He shudders as the feeling retreats. Leaving him weighed down. Bones heavy, and eyes drooping in their sockets. He wants to close them, he wants to sleep, leave the pressure and the pain behind but... There's one thing that he can do. One thing that he  _has_  to do. So he struggles, forcing his eyes to open up fully once more. Forcing himself up, jerky movements, awkward movements. The desk is covered in papers.

Blueprints, half-finished schemes that he can barely look at anymore. Most of them have never worked,  _could never work_ , and he just doesn't have the energy. He sweeps them away, bits of material, ink and paint colouring his arm once the space is clear. Awkwardly he hoists himself up, and it's pure willpower that has him sweeping the room, finding some fresh paper.

Blank sheets waiting to be covered.

He finds a nub of pencil, a small pitiful thing that could just barely be considered usable. But it's enough, it will have to be enough. And he slumps into the seat at the desk again. He doesn't really want to, but there's another shudder, a harsh burning pain in the back of his throat, a sharp tug behind his ribs and a pressure,  _can't breathe, can't breathe..._  He stiffens, eyes wide and unseeing, staring at a figure vaguely, he can almost see-

The moment passes and he slumps, the stub of pencil almost falling from his grasp. But he forces his metacarpals and phalanges to curl around it, holding on.

He's only left with this option.

So he jerks himself upright, puts the pencil to the sheet in front of him and-

He writes.

He writes the words until there are none left, and even then, he goes back and repeats them.

He writes until the paper is covered, until there is  _nothing left._

* * *

He sees the small bunny alebrije before he sees the person that it belongs to. Walking down a lonely path, heading somewhat downwards, just beyond the more populated areas. Here things are dimmer, a bit dull if he's being honest, the spaces empty and everything curls. Winding down and around, as if the area was purposefully built to be a maze. It could be nice he supposes, with the paintings and decorations on the walls, and the artificial plants and trees, the vines that decorate the area almost making it seem like a jungle...

But really it just feels lonely, isolated, and somewhat dangerous, who knows what creatures could lurk out in the artificial forest.

But he knows what he's looking for, and he sees the bunny first. Lazily lying flopped on a lawn of bright artificial grass. Ears twitching periodically and long fluffy chinchilla tail lazily swishing through the air behind them. The rabbit barely gives a twitch of the nose to his approach, staying where it is. Relaxed and happy. He slows down as he approaches, an itching under his shoulder blades, a certain chill up and down his spine.

The building is simple, just a plain house, plainer than most in the Land of the Dead really, but he still pauses in front of it. Hesitant, wary, he doesn't really want to step forwards onto the lawn, he doesn't want to step up to the door. But he does, he steps forwards, movements slow, deliberate and broadcasted.

He raises a hand and knocks.

Once, twice, three times his fisted hand raps against the wood. He shivers as he stands there, his yellowed bones stark and obvious to him. And more than that, there's paper in his pouch, paper that he doesn't really want to think about. He doesn't want to face the truth even though.

The door is yanked open, an awkwardly wide, almost wild grin thrown his way. Brown eyes wide, almost looking shot gaze at him.

"Hola José" he says easily, seeing how the other's hand digs into the wood of the frame.

"Hector!" The shorter man looks up at him, grin a rictus and it's obvious that he's been having a rough time, clothing messy and hair wilder than normal. "What brings you out here?" José's movements are exaggerated, jerky and awkward in a way that tells him all the information he really needs. The other man's been shaken by something, or gone off his medication again. One of the two.

Somewhere in the background the alebrije makes a sound, before it's hopping over and José freezes, grin dropping for a moment into something more natural before he's looking up at him again, and that crazy look's back.

"I need to ask you a favour José..."

"Again?" the shorter skeleton asks, voice almost a snap. He whirls on his feet back into the house waving Hector in after him. "You know I can't really cover for you... I mean I work at-"

"The Terminal... I'm... aware José" he cuts the other off, waving a hand and fighting back a grimace at the sharp, stabbing, digging your insides out pain that hits him. A flicker of golden light and  _no, not now_ , before he's gasping, a hand coming up to cover over his mouth and eyes widening.

"Hector!?" José's mad look drops away completely, shifting straight to horror, the bunny alebrije letting out a chattering sound and hopping over to him as he collapses, arms curling around his non-existent stomach, instinctively his hands twitch, clawing at the pain, and he's somewhere small, a space that doesn't fit him, a place he doesn't belong.

He wants to reach out, to scream, but there's a pressure on his sternum and his ribs are constricting, unable to expand, he  _can't..._

"HECTOR BREATHE!" The call cuts through and he heaves a breath, and then another, weakly his bones rattle and he bows his head, struggling to move. Struggling to. "Hector... Hector, por favor..."

"Please... Please... José..." he looks up, sockets stinging at the edges. There's desperation in his voice, a tremble in his bones. He can feel the creeping wariness, the heavy weight dragging his bones down, an ever present fog that makes it hard to think, makes it hard to even formulate a simple thought. He's barely able to push himself up, reeling in his skull and connection weak. "I just need..." he weakly fishes in his pouch, finding the paper is too easy.

José's eyes widen, there's realization, the dawn of horror.

They both know what it means. And José's head shakes just slightly. But hesitantly, almost resigned, the other takes the papers. And he can't help but feel the weight lift. The easing of an ache. A distant relief.

"Gracias... José" his voice is weak, and his vision is swimming. There's a pounding echoing beat in his head. A pulse over his bones, that sharp pain. He collapses, arms curling and body coiling. Pulling himself up into a ball as wave after wave hits him. Everything is on fire, radiating out from one area somewhere deep in a middle he no longer has. Almost distantly there's a voice he can hear. Someone desperately calling, desperately pleading.

But he can't...

It's nice when the pain fades, a soothing numbness overtaking it, a soft blanket of nothingness. And he closes his eyes...

* * *

When she steps through that door it's to a hustle of activity. People working away at old type-writers and calling out to one another. Working away as if everything were normal. And it's to skeletons. Still before she can make any demands she's being shuffled along, led by someone in a blue uniform. There are explanations she doesn't quite hear before she's sat in a chair. She's told to wait.

Blue light fills the room, going right through her and making her shiver and she grimaces at the intense feeling of judgement as the light disappears. But she doesn't move until the door is opening back up. Standing there is a skeleton with wide eyes, holding some papers in his hands, there's a strange brightly coloured creature at his feet. It primarily looks like a bunny, but has spikes all down it's back and a fluffy big tail that swishes behind it. He looks behind him almost awkwardly before tugging at his collar slightly.

"Uh... y-you're Imelda Rivera r-right?" he asks and she narrows her eyes at him, and he swallows, forcing himself to meet her eyes. "I... I'm not your Death Guidance Counsellor... I-I'm here to d-deliver-" the man cuts himself off, and instead holds out the papers for her to take. She narrows her eyes, but begrudgingly accepts them.

Moments later the man is shooed away and she's being rushed through halls, the papers in her hands are taken, packed away into a bag and she's walked through a large pile of paperwork. A photo's taken, with a flash, and before she knows it there's a ticket pushed into her hands and the bag the papers were placed in earlier. She glares at the skeletons around her, all of them in various states.

When they're on the train she settles in. She doesn't look at the bag, doesn't think about the papers. Not until she's being waved off, and herded over to a grinning women in a uniform. There's talk, and explanations, pamphlets being handed to her, and she's being told to wait momentarily while her family is contacted and her alebrije arrives.

In the distance she can hear a roar.

The skeleton from earlier passes by, stopping to talk to the one who had greeted her. Holding a file in his hands and looking grim, there's a coil behind her ribs, a distant ache. Almost absently she finds herself looking towards the door, expecting  _something_ , but the door remains closed. The man sighs, hands the file over and leaves, his bunny following him, and there's something  _wrong_ , she's not sure what but it itches over her bones.

The feeling doesn't leave even when she's greeting her family. Nodding to her parents and being swept up into a hug by her more distant relatives, talking and catching up. It doesn't leave when a giant winged jaguar lands with a roar in front of her, momentarily confusing until she looks into those eyes and she  _knows_. But there's still something wrong, something is just missing.

Even when she reaches the hacienda, a building that resembles the one back in Santa Cecilia, she  _can't_ rid herself of the feeling. She keeps expecting something, she keeps looking around, just waiting for something. It itches at her, and when she lies down on her bed for the night her eyes are drawn to the bag she'd been handed.

The bag with those papers.

There's a weight in her chest, hanging between her central ribs, just slightly to the left. Her footsteps sound loud, final as she walks over to the bag and pulls out the papers. Familiar writing covers them, a grimace pulls at her face automatically. She wants to shove them back into the bag, pretend that she's never seen them.

But she can't...

There's a chill creeping into her bones, a sick feeling and distant words echo in her skull. An explanation barely heard, but still registered. And she takes a shuddery breath, ribcage heaving and hands clutching at the papers.

The words are barely legible, written hastily and scrawled across the page, but she still recognizes them. She still understands them, she knows that writing, that hand.

The tone is familiar as well.

In a way she wishes that it weren't.

A tremble goes through her bones, and she raises her head up, looking out the window and desperately hoping, expecting to see a figure out there. But there's nothing, an empty street under the light of a full moon hanging ominously. She can't see anyone, can't see anything.

So she turns back to the scrawled letters. Desperately trying to read them as anything other than what they were. It feels so final, she can't...

"No..." she breathes, the word forcing itself out. There's a choked feeling in the back of her throat, a stinging at the edges of her sockets and the papers fall from her hands. Scattering and revealing something unexpected. A familiar grin, on a face she hasn't seen in years, a face she has forced away from her mind every time it's been recalled.

She freezes, eyes staring, wide almost unseeing at the photo.

"No... You can't... you can't..." there's a tremble, a shudder and she drops down. The ache breaks, something in her ribcage shuddering and cracking. There's a weight clawing at her back, and she clasps her hands together muttering rapidly. But it's too late, she knows, the one she's calling for under her breath, he's gone. "Por favor Hector..." she whispers voice a desperate breath against the emptiness. "I can't do this anymore... not on my own, I  _need_ you here!" she pleads.

The plea goes unanswered.

And where it lies on the floor she can just barely see the first few words of a letter.

A final letter, a letter of farewell.

_Lo siento, Imelda_


End file.
